It's a fucking bitch doing surveillance at a beach. You can't just take your camera out to the beach and start taking pictures of people. Well, you can and it's legal because the people are in a public place and legally have no expectation of privacy, but a lot of people, especially women, don't see it that way anymore.
It's the goddamned internet that fucked everything up. A couple websites started up that published pictures of women who didn't know they were being photographed. They were an instant success and it's not hard to understand why. We guys are a bunch of horny bastards and we really like seeing women doing what they don't want us to see them doing. Most women don't like everybody seeing them when they're naked or when they're on the can and that's what most of the pictures were.
It didn't take long before there were guys installing cameras in swimming pool shower rooms, clothing store changing rooms, women's restrooms, and their own bedrooms and guest rooms. At least one guy fixed the ceiling fan in his twenty-something neighbor's bedroom and while he was up there, installed a camera with a wireless transmitter in the base. He had a 24/7 view of her doing what she did in her bedroom until one of her friends saw the pictures and recognized her.
There were even guys who put a little camera in the toe of one shoe and then walked around sticking that toe under a woman's dress to catch a view of her panties or panty hose they saved on a memory stick in their pocket.
A lot of pictures like these ended up posted for the world to see. Now some of the shower and dressing room shots were pretty neat but I didn't care much for the shots of women on the can. Panties, I can understand a little. On the right woman, the right panties can start raising my flag. I don't understand the attraction of fucking panty hose at all.
First of all, panty hose are about as sexy as a sack of warm dog shit. Second of all, the crotch, the part that covers what would be fun to see, is usually black or dark brown so all you see is a dark stripe between the woman's legs. Third of all, women usually wear pantyhose over their panties, so even if you can see through the goddamned things, all you see is panties and you can't see them worth a shit. I guess the crotchless pantyhose are OK, but I'd rather look at tits and a bush. Big tits are the best, but any tits are better than fucking pantyhose.
Personally, I think whoever invented the goddamned things should be strangled with them...slowly. They're a bitch to get off a woman. By the time you get the goddamned things off, she's out of the mood. Well, that's my experience with my ex anyway. She wasn't ever in the mood much to start with, though, so I think she wore pantyhose like a medieval princess wore a chastity belt.
Well, the goddamned feminists found out about these voyeur sites and raised one hell of a stink. Pretty soon, guys were getting arrested for peeping with all those cameras. There were even special laws passed to make what was already illegal more illegal, and guys who were convicted had to register as sex offenders.
Now, I understand why the women were so pissed off. Women tend to let their hair and everything else down when they take a shower or get ready for bed and some of what they let down isn't all that sexy. I mean, bras and what women call "body shapers" exist for a reason. What I don't understand is how that attitude didn't get transferred to beaches.
When I started out in the PI business, most women wore one-piece swimsuits, and those suits pretty much hid everything a guy would want to see. They looked more like short-shorts with a matching top sewed to the waistband. If the woman had really big tits, her tits would swing around when she walked but the whole suit was stretchy so it pretty much kept all the other lumps and bumps in place and hidden. Women then didn't care if you took their picture. You could just walk around with a camera snapping photos of women until your ass fell off and usually they'd just smile.
Now, women wear skimpy little bikinis that show all of their ass cheeks and most of their tits. They have to shave their pussies or the hair sticks out around the little strip of material between their legs, and some of the tops don't cover much of their tits besides their nipples.
They wear suits like this for one reason and that's so men like me will look at them. They like men looking at them, but let just one PI take one snap shot and all hell breaks loose. You'd think you'd just walked up to the woman and asked her if you could fuck her in the ass.
Even if the woman you took a picture of didn't see you take it, some other broad will have and she'll call you a pervert and throw a can of soda at you. Full soda cans hurt like hell. I think the real reason the broad will do that is she's just pissed that you didn't take a picture of her flabby ass and saggy tits too. Yeah, those broads wear bikini's too. Shouldn't, but they do.
Anyway, I was sitting in my car in a parking lot on an August day and sweating my balls off while watching the beach on Percy Priest Lake through my binoculars. I was in my car because of what I just said. If I'd just strolled along the beach in my jeans and shirt trying to see if Belinda was there, I'd have gotten in trouble with the fucking feminist police and also let her know I was looking for her.
Tracking down a cheating spouse or lover is a common thing for any PI to do, so I'd done jobs like this before. What made this one special is Belinda's girlfriend wanted to know if Belinda was being faithful or not. Marjorie had given me a picture of Belinda, so I knew what she looked like. The picture also told me it was a goddamned shame Belinda was a lesbian.
Now, I don't have a thing in the world against lesbians. I have a few former clients who are lesbians. We became friends and I like them. I even like Billy Jean Boyd, though that was fucking hard to do until I got to know her. Billy Jean is a bull-dyke. Well, I guess today you're supposed to say she's a "butch". If you're a lesbian, you can still say bull-dyke, but if you're not you have to say butch so you won't offend anybody.
When she walked into my office that day, I thought she was a really short guy. She was wearing one of those dark blue work uniforms that looked a size or two too big and steel-toe work boots. Her brown hair was shorter than mine, and she had on a blue ball cap that said "IBEW 429" on the front.
When Billy Jean started talking, I still wasn't sure. Her voice could have been either a tenor or a low alto. I didn't know until she reached inside her shirt and adjusted her bra strap. When she did that, I saw her tit move under her shirt.
Billy Jean wanted me to find her sister for her. She said when she came out -- that means when she told everybody she likes licking pussies instead of being fucked by a guy - her sister had stopped speaking to her. That was ten years ago, and Billy Jean had lost track of Betty June because she'd moved three times. Billy Jean wanted me to find Betty June so they could get back together.
Well, I found Betty June and I was there when they met. It was pretty emotional. Betty turned out to be about as masculine as Billy Jean, though she was married and had three kids. She walked up to Billy Jean and hugged her and said she was sorry for not talking to her for so long.
Billy Jean cried her eyes out, and I mean that blubbering, sobbing, can't understand what the fuck they're saying, kind of crying. Before they left me, Billy Jean gave me a hug and told me if she could ever help me do anything, to just give her a call.
I did call her about six months later. My microwave kept tripping one of the circuit breakers that fed my office/apartment. I'd called the building owner about six times and he kept telling me he'd tried to get an electrician out to look but they were always busy. The asshole just didn't want to fork over the cash to get it fixed since it wasn't going to burn down the building any time soon.
I'm smart enough to know electricity isn't something I should fuck around with, so I called Billy Jean and asked if she knew of an electrician who had time to come look at the problem. She said she'd be right over.
Billy Jean found my problem, a wire that had loosened up on one of the outlets, and after five minutes, it was fixed. We sat down in my office and caught up over a little scotch. I learned Billy Jean had a new girlfriend and it was getting serious. They were thinking about getting married.
I also learned Billy Jean couldn't hold her scotch. When she stood up to leave, she damn near fell flat on her face. She giggled and said she'd just tripped and then started for the door, but she was walking in sort of an arc rather than straight. We'd only gone through about a quarter of the bottle and I was feeling fine, but I guess she wasn't much of a scotch drinker. I walked her back to my bedroom, put her to bed, and slept on my couch that night.
When she staggered into my kitchen about eight thirty the next morning, she croaked, "do you have any coffee", and then sat down at my little table and put her head in her hands.
"How much did I fucking drink last night?"
"I'm not sure because I don't measure except by eye. I filled your glass up to the flowers a couple...no, it was three times."
"It feels like my fucking head's gonna fall off."
I sat a cup of coffee in front of her.
